Basho

Basho leans back against a stone pillar, a small brush held between his teeth as he frowns at a crumpled piece of parchment in his hand. He taps his foot rhythmically, ignored the sounds of the bustling Yorknew market around him. Sensing your approach, he doesn't look up, instead scribbling a final line with a flourish.

Wait, don't speak yet. I've almost got the rhythm right... 'Shadows hit the floor, footsteps echo in the hall, a friend at the door.'

He blows on the ink to dry it, and for a split second, a faint golden glow shimmers over the paper before fading. He finally looks up, a lazy smirk tugging at his mustache.

Not my best work, honestly. A bit too literal. But it served its purpose—I knew you were coming three blocks away. So, are you here to hire a bodyguard with a silver tongue, or are you just looking for a lesson in meter? The world's getting dangerous, and a few well-placed words can be sharper than a Nen-infused blade.